


After Us

by SherlockianSyndromes



Series: Prompt Fills 2018 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianSyndromes/pseuds/SherlockianSyndromes
Summary: Sherlock was not fond of retirement.





	After Us

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written for a prompt fill on the LJ community [comment_fic](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/896336.html). The prompt was _Any, any/any, After Us (by Connie Wanek)._

Sherlock was not fond of retirement.  
  
Especially on days like today: cold, raining, sky the color of gravestones. He missed London whenever it rained in the countryside. He missed the work, the race to catch the clues hidden between drops of rain and lost in puddles.  
  
Evidence of his boredom was spread around the cottage. Books were strewn about the living room floor, some still lying open and airing Sherlock's spidery handwritten notes in the margins. His violin case sat in the bay window, open, violin tucked inside but the bow mysteriously missing. In the kitchen, his pile of sketchbooks sat in the middle of the dining table, filled with messy attempts at subjects like fields, barns, sheep, a bowl of eggs, his flute, a clever face.  
  
Not his, of course. No, the only thing that had been constant in his life besides the work had been John Watson. And when the work was over, John had remained.  
  
_It was never the work, Sherlock. It was you. You were the reason I stayed._  
  
They'd had many conversations like this one since moving away from London. There were many hours to fill, and talking seemed to pass the time more than any of the inane hobbies Sherlock had tried to pick up. More time for music, reading, bee keeping, all things he had pushed aside for the sake of being a consulting detective.  
  
More time for John.  
  
Just when the white noise of the rain began to be too much for Sherlock's racing thoughts, the only saving grace of retirement walked into the room, past the clutter, took Sherlock's hand, and squeezed it.  
  
"We have a leaky roof," John said, his voice quiet.  
  
"What?" Sherlock shook the remaining thoughts from his head and turned toward his husband. "Where?"  
  
"In the bedroom. Over the bed. The only reason I noticed is because I heard water drip into your guitar, which, by the way, you should really put away when you're not playing it."  
  
Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "My guitar? How bad is it?"  
  
John smiled in reassurance. "It was just a few drops, I moved it. Although if we want a dry place to sleep tonight, we may want to look at patching the roof sooner rather than later."  
  
Sherlock smiled at John and nodded. "A problem to fix. Just what I needed."  
  
John laughed and the sound of it echoed through the tiny cottage and, for a moment, drowned out the noise of the rain. "Do you think this rain will ever stop?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged and turned away from the window to head towards the kitchen. "It will cease or it will keep falling. Doesn't really matter much to me. Just as long as you're here."

**Author's Note:**

> The poem that this ficlet is based on can be found [here](https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/024.html).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
